


Words Of Fire And Whisky

by WhereDoYouWantMe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 1970s, Alternate Universe - Firewatch Fusion, John has major PTSD, M/M, Sherlock acts like a dick, Sherlock is a Mess, shoshone national park
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-31 02:01:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17840279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhereDoYouWantMe/pseuds/WhereDoYouWantMe
Summary: “What’s wrong with you?”Sherlock makes another noise but doesn’t say anything more on the subject. “That’s a great idea, go ahead.”And even though he’s teasing, John isn’t in the mood and he tries to keep his voice in check with the next message. “Look, I just hiked for two days so I really don’t follow whatever it is you’re doing right now.”And Sherlock laughs but it sounds fake, like he’s testing him. “Try and guess what’s wrong with me.”“Fine,” John spits. “Then will you let me sleep so I can try and forget the last few days?”This time when Sherlock laughs, it sounds truer. “Sure thing, John. Go ahead and guess my deepest and darkest secrets.”John lets out a long suffering sigh and rubs at his forehead. “Okay, you’re probably out here because no one back home can stand you.” He says, and doesn’t turn off the radio when he mutters. “Which, after this brief introduction, isn’t a big shock.”--John only wanted to watch the fires. Instead, he ended up falling in love.





	Words Of Fire And Whisky

**Author's Note:**

> Right, so, this began as something I did because I was bored and ended up turning into something long. It's a bit crap and some bits probably don't make sense and maybe it should be longer and more detailed than it is but I fell in love this story somewhere along the way so here it is. Raw and messy and all.

The air is crisper somehow when he taxis into the small runway- partially hidden by forest- so much brighter than just minutes ago when it felt like he could barely breathe. It might be something to do with the lack of civilisation or the trees or that great big lake he had seen on his flight over that he was definitely going to have to investigate very soon. But all the same it is like filling his lungs with pure oxygen and John just can't get enough of it. 

The Pilot echoes his instruments into the comms and John listens out for what he knows which is, in truth, very little whilst he waits to leave. The tinny radio had been turned on almost as soon as they had left the airport and it is blaring something by the Rolling Stones that he isn't particularly fond of, but it is enough to distract him from the sinking feeling that he gets as the Pilot adjusts his rank tabs. 

John pinches the inside of his arm, hard, and thinks of the manual he had been sent just before he got the job, tries to remember the most banal of rules and lists them off in his head. And that seems to be enough to snap him into realising that the pilot is flipping his safety belly open and he's pushed up the cockpit. The minute that his feet touch the ground John grins because no one ever truly forgets the forest, and even though each is different they all feel the same. It's like being welcomed home to a place you've never been before and John loves it. 

The Pilot is kind enough to pull his luggage out of the back for him and he's carted off of the runway by a tired looking man in a jumpsuit who claps the Pilot on the back and tells him that his readings were good the entire time. Eventually, when they've reached a smaller out building, the pilot turns to John and holds out a hand but doesn't bother with taking his gloves off. 

"Mike Stamford. It's a pleasure." He grins, John can see that much through his visor and John grins back. 

"John Watson. But you already knew that." He says and Mike lets out a clear laugh and throws his head back. "Thanks for the ride. You’re sure you won't take full pay?" He asks again because Mike had insisted that John should pay less than his usual rate because he's going out to work for his old woman. 

"Your old woman?" John had asked when he'd first said it and Mike shook his head. 

"Not like that. She's this lovely lady who runs all of the fire watchers in Shoshone; you'll probably hear her on the radio a couple of times. She's up at the main camp so you might not see her." 

John had raised his eyebrow and stared. "So she's going to be my radio pal for the next six months?" And Mike had sent him the most apologetic look possible. 

"No. It won't be her. You're stuck with someone else this season." He had muttered and that was all he said, even when John tried to pry him for more. 

Mike waits for him to change out of his jumpsuit and the helmet is carefully placed in a small holder where it will stay until he needs it for the ride home. He's then led out where he fills out a single form and finally, Mike walks him about ten minutes away from the airfield- if it can even be called that, it's more a strip of muddy tarmac and two outbuildings than anything else- to the ranger office. 

Inside, he meets Molly Hooper, a girl not that much older than him who's lived in Shoshone for most of her life and who knows the park better than anyone. 

"Well almost anyone," she stammers and John can't help but quirk up an eyebrow at that. "Mrs Hudson knows it like the back of her hand and then you've got Holmes, of course." And that's a name that John hasn't heard so far so of course he has to investigate. 

"I'm sorry?" He asks. "Holmes?" 

Molly nods as though it's terribly exciting and leads him out through the back and into a store room that smells like mud, damp and old sweat. "He's been coming here since he was nineteen; he did a degree in fire prevention or something like that." She says and begins pulling things out of boxes and placing them on a small, foldable table in the center of the room. "He knows a lot about the fires. He can look at them and know what caused them and where they're heading better than anyone." And John admits to himself that, that does seem quite impressive. Anyway, it'll be better than knowing too much about guns or how to heal someone after they’ve had their leg blown clean off. After a moment Molly stops what she's doing and smiles painfully at him. "You might not get along with him at first, but he's not too bad when you get used to him." 

John really isn't surprised at this; half of the people he had worked with over the years were strangers, hermits that live in the back end of a creek surviving on crackers and cheap beer. He doubts that this Holmes will be any different. "I think I'll be fine, Molly." He says and she smiles wide enough that he pretends not to see her blush. “He can’t be that bad, can he?” 

Molly laughs and finally pulls out a map before dumping it on top of the pile of gear. “He really is. Almost everyone we’ve hired at Gladstone Tower has left because of him; I think he said something about their families. He’s really smart, like scary smart and he can work almost anything out from just one look at you.” Molly flashes him a grin and then places her hands on the table beside herself. “Well, from hearing you. You’ll meet the other rangers probably later in the season; from here until September it’s just you guys but don’t hold out too much hope on meeting Holmes. He likes to hole himself up unless he’s hiking or chasing away kids that have had too much to drink.” And then they fall into silence as she gestures down at the stuff and John packs his bag. 

 

The hike lasts almost two days and John wants to pass out when he finally spots the tower in the distance. It’s nearly nightfall and the sun is just beginning to streak over the horizon and hits his eyes at all of the wrong angles. The tower is in the perfect spot, right on top of a hill that gives him a really great view of the rest of the park; when he gets up there he’ll have to take some pictures for back home. 

Even as he’s staring into the horizon of a completely different country, the thought of home makes his chest hurt and the wonder from the day blows away, leaving him feeling strangely empty and all alone. 

The steps up to his tower hurt more than the actual hike and John wonders just how much weight he is going to lose hiking up and down here multiple times a day. But the impact is worth it; when he finally reaches the top and can just stare for a moment out into the distance and for the first time since he took the plane out of Heathrow he realises just how good this is going to be for him. His tower is small on the inside but relatively cosy and he has enough space for his bed in one corner, and a desk that has been pushed up against the front most wall that has the most gorgeous views of the mountains and what looks like, if John squints, another fire tower. There’s a sink and a hob on the other wall with a microwave and a couple of old cabinets that look about two minutes away from completely falling apart. After three tries the lights finally flicker on and he’s bathed in a warm sort of glow that he never had when he was out in the East; he spent most of his time under the LED lights of the field hospital and it softens his features somehow. 

He’s barely set his pack down by the time something squawks in the corner and it takes John much too long to figure out that it’s the radio. 

“Good Evening, Gladstone Tower, this is Baker Tower. So nice to finally see you, despite the fact that you’re about six hours late.” The voice is surprisingly deep and refreshingly English and John realises right away that this has got to be Holmes. “Not that anyone ever arrives at the right fucking time anyway.” 

John grabs the radio and holds it up to his face. “Hello?” And he barely gets the words out before he is cut off. 

“Took you long enough. Jesus, it’s like they deliberately hire all of the idiots and leave the intelligent, good people… hang on, you’re English?” He asks and John stares out of the window at the dying sun for a moment and tries to figure out just why everyone was so terrified of this man. 

“Yes.” John finds himself saying, although he doesn’t know why. “John.” He says and there is a brief silence from the other side of the line. “It’s Holmes, right?” 

The line clicks on briefly and he can hear Holmes scoff. “Actually, it’s Sherlock, but they never put that on the forms.” And John doesn’t know what else to say because what the hell kind of name is Sherlock? “Your lights are shit by the way; you’ll have to fix them. It took you ages to turn them on.” He says and John jumps a little, staring through the windows again as though Sherlock is standing right outside of them. 

“Yeah, uh, you can see me?” He asks more out of shock than anything and he can practically hear Sherlock roll his eyes when his radio squeaks again. 

“I can see all the lookouts.” Comes his reply and, well, John doesn’t really know what to say to that but he spots the silhouette of the other fire tower in the distance, half hidden by the sun. “So, what’s wrong with you then?” Sherlock asks and John stills for moment. “People take this job to get away from things, not because they fancy a holiday. You sound young but Molly said you’re a vet, so, running away from memories? No, a place like this would just give you more problems. So you’ve got someone you’re running away from.” There is a moment over the line where he makes a small, considering sort of noise and John feels sick because if Sherlock really is as good as Molly claims him to be, he’ll have him figure out in no time. “Abusive ex? No, wife?” John makes no noise and Sherlock grumbles something. “You’re running from your family, what, brother? Alcoholic brother?” 

John cuts him off then, because it’s way too close to the truth for comfort. “What’s wrong with you?” 

Sherlock makes another noise but doesn’t say anything more on the subject. “That’s a great idea, go ahead.” 

And even though he’s teasing, John isn’t in the mood and he tries to keep his voice in check with the next message. “Look, I just hiked for two days so I really don’t follow whatever it is you’re doing right now.” 

And Sherlock laughs but it sounds fake, like he’s testing him. “Try and guess what’s wrong with me.” 

“Fine,” John spits. “Then will you let me sleep so I can try and forget the last few days?” 

This time when Sherlock laughs, it sounds truer. “Sure thing, John. Go ahead and guess my deepest and darkest secrets.” 

John lets out a long suffering sigh and rubs at his forehead. “Okay, you’re probably out here because no one back home can stand you.” He says, and doesn’t turn off the radio when he mutters. “Which, after this brief introduction, isn’t a big shock.” 

The laugh that he receives a second later proves that Sherlock heard him. “Ouch! You wound me, John. But no, incorrect. Think about what you know about me, what Molly and… did you come in with Mike? What did he tell you about me that could lead to the exposé containing all of my dark secrets?” He asks, dropping his voice to a dramatic whisper at the last words and John raises an eyebrow at the silhouette of the tower. 

“Yeah, um. I mean, they didn’t tell me an awful lot and all I’ve gotten so far is that you’re a rude prick who has successfully kicked out almost every ranger before me.” He rolls his eyes at the delighted giggle that comes from Sherlock’s side of the radio. “So, what? You’re like twenty three?” 

“Twenty five, actually. Just turned it in January.” Sherlock says and he sounds as if he’s eating something. 

“So a twenty five year old who’s been out here since he’s nineteen, who came all the way out here. As you said, everyone comes out here to run from something.” John leans his arms against the table and watches the tower in the distance carefully. “Let’s see, you’re probably a recovering drug addict who left because your home reminds you too much of your teenage years and you’re parents are so disappointed in you that you can’t face them.” In truth, John means it as a joke but there is silence from the other end of the line for a very long time until finally, the lines clicks again. 

“Actually, I just really like trees and really don’t like forest fires.” He mutters and John thinks that he must have hit the nail right on the head if he’s acting like this. 

“Goodnight.” He says and doesn’t expect Sherlock to answer. 

So when he does, John smiles. “Goodnight.” And there might even be a hint of a laugh in his voice. “Welcome to the job.” 

 

John wakes early, as is his MO, to the sound of radio cutting in and out, but Sherlock isn’t trying to talk to him at all so he doesn’t even bother talking to him. It is surprisingly easy to slip into a routine during the day of checking through the windows and reading the maps on his desk and walls to try and acquaint himself with the layout of the park, even though he knows in his mind that he never will. 

“Good morning, John,” Sherlock beeps in and John swears that he sounds much too chipper for the man that he met last night. “Well, I should probably say, ‘good afternoon’, you slept like a rock.” He says and John rolls his eyes. 

“Actually, I’ve been up since about six. I’ve been catching up on what I need to know and didn’t think I needed to contact you.” He replies and places the radio next to him to continue working. In the back of his mind he remembers his typewriter in the back of his bag and promises himself he’ll get at least one page written today. 

“Congratulations. In future, contact me when you wake up. That way I can give you all the jobs that you’re being paid to do.” Sherlock says and the happiness from earlier melts away on his tongue. “Anyway, there’s still a few hours of daylight left to get some work in and you’re up much earlier than everyone else so you can count that as a tally in your favour. I can see you’re at your desk.” He says and the line cuts off and John silently curses the fact that the window has no blinds. 

“You have a tally?”

And Sherlock sounds proud when he replies. “For every tower.” 

John tries not to roll his eyes. “Do most people oversleep their first day here?” John asks. 

“Uhuh, they normally get a relaxing, what, fourteen hours of sleep? And then are completely unable to do any work for the time that they have left their first day because they’re too busy, ‘getting acquainted with the landscape’.” Sherlock sneers and John wonders just how evil he really is or if the people that Mrs Hudson hires really are morons. “Even my dog had better fucking manners?” 

“Your dog?” John asks. 

“Redbeard. Had him when I was a kid; grew up in a lonely household and he was pretty much my only friend as a kid. He died when I was young.” Sherlock coughs and John doesn’t know what to say. “Listen, there’s a thing in the middle of your room with a round map on it, do you see it?” And John radios back an affirmation. “If you’re really the military man Molly claims you are, I’m sure you’ll be able to tell me what that it.” 

John rolls his eyes because he can, and Sherlock can’t see him. “It’s a map. Although I assume it has another purpose?” 

Sherlock laughs again and John warms a little. “That is the Osborne Fire Fighter, invented in 1914 by W.B.…?” 

“Osborne?”

“You use this to spot; you guessed it, fi- what the fuck?” John whirls around stares out of the window in shock. 

“What is it?” 

“Nothing. Um, you use this to- oh fuck me!” Sherlock hisses and if he didn’t sound so concerned, John might have made a funny retort. “Out your west facing window!” Sherlock calls down the line and John hurries over. He catches the problem immediately and makes a low noise of disapproval in the back of his throat. 

“Are those fireworks?” He asks, a little breathless because who the hell even lights fireworks in a forest? “That’s not legal!” 

“Of course it isn’t!” Sherlock calls. “You need to get down there right now and stop them. Fire danger is through the fucking roof!” 

John furrows his eyebrows and stares out at the small explosions in the sky. “Is that really my job?” 

Sherlock snorts, or makes a noise like it, John can’t really make out through the static. “Your job is whatever I say it is. The closest ranger is a day away. Go down there and stop them.” 

John has to laugh. “Like kick the shit out of them?” 

“No, no, no! Jesus, no!” Sherlock cries and John wonders if he actually thought he was being serious. “Just make sure they don’t do it again. Take their stuff.” 

John sighs, making sure that Sherlock can hear him when he does and grabs his pack, heaving it onto his back alongside his map and compass. “Fine.” 

“Don’t feed anyone a knuckle sandwich, big burly soldier boy.” Sherlock says and John rolls his eyes again, even though the words make him uncomfortable. 

“Shut up.” John mutters and he hears Sherlock laugh from over the line, flipping off the other tower as he hops down the staircase. 

 

He comes across a tree about halfway to the lake, all ripped up with half of the bark missing and deep gouges out of the wood. He doesn’t even realise that he’s calling Sherlock before he hears the kssh beep of his radio. 

“Either there are bears out here or someone has an axe and an anger problem. You find that as disconcerting as I do?” He asks. 

“John,” Sherlock starts, sounding much too fed up already. “There are five hundred pound bears out there. They sharpen their claws on trees. Don’t you know this?” He shuffles something in the background and John hears a can hiss. “What the hell do they teach you in military training?” 

John glowers at the radio and feigns nonchalance with his next call. “Oh, lots of things like how to do pushups, how to read maps. And how to fire a gun.” He hisses the last words out and has to pull the radio away from his face when Sherlock barks out a laugh. 

“Alright, Soldier Boy, settle down. We all know that you’re big and scary, no need to threaten my life.” Sherlock sounds really much too happy with his reply and Joh wants to kick him in the face. 

“Bastard.” He mutters. “As well you know, we don’t have bears in England. I haven’t exactly got my bear call practiced.” 

“Well, in Thorofare they hunt people, they kill people, they bury their bodies and then come back weeks later to eat them because they prefer rotten meat. People just disappear.” Sherlock says in a light voice and John has to pause for a moment because he has no idea if he just heard that right. 

“Don’t you think that’s disconcerting?” He cries and Sherlock laughs again. 

“John, when you’ve seen the things that I’ve seen, you get used to that sort of thing.” And then he falls silent and John realises that he’s probably remembering something that he doesn’t really want to, and goes silent for a long time. 

 

He comes across beer cans next and sighs before he reports them. “They left their beer cans down here,” John’s eyes trail upwards and he rolls his eyes. “And their packs.” He sees a thin plume of smoke and lets out the longest and deepest sigh that he can manage. “And a campfire.” 

“God, they’re idiots. I would like to retract my statement about knuckle sandwiches. Feed away.” Sherlock mutters darkly and John laughs but moments later, he stops. 

“They left their, uh, clothes here. Looks to be two girls. What if they’re naked?” John asks and Sherlock groans loudly. 

“Won’t that be exciting? They’re still there, John, just tell them to full off and go back so that you can eat beans and write your novel or whatever it is you do.” Sherlock says and the line clicks off, a definite, not my problem. 

There is music blaring in the distance and John reaches past his embarrassment for a second to roll his eyes and remember to be angry for a moment before he rounds a bush and finds two bras and pants. 

“Remain professional, John.” He stares ahead and doesn’t let his eyes wander when he walks past. “Completely professional.” 

 

In the end, the girls are gone and John walks back to the tower in the dark. 

Before he gets back, at a cave he recognises from the map, John sees a figure. They have a torch and they flash it at him for a moment before sprinting backwards, ignoring John when he calls out for them. “There’s some guy out here giving me the creeps.” 

“Okay.” Sherlock patches through and says nothing else. 

“Sherlock!” John cries and hears him groan. 

“What do you want me to say? The whole place is open, it’s crazy and members of the public are scattered all around it like malignant growths. You’re going to have to face more than one creepy guy around the forest, John. Better get used to it.” Sherlock says and quickly goes onto talking about how many people visit the park each year. John talks to Sherlock a lot about almost nothing, the park and its secrets and almost everything that Sherlock knows about it he tells him. He’s also told about the ranger, Lestrade, who pops down every now and again who has a raging crush on Molly and that he’ll probably see him at the next supply drop. He finds out about Mrs Hudson, a woman who had taken one look at the skinny, disproportionate boy that Sherlock had been and trained him in the art of knowing fire, and being capable of destroying it. He also finds out, from a slip of Sherlock’s tongue, that he is very gay and very proud of it. John’s cheeks flare up when Sherlock says. “Yeah of course. My parents weren’t very supportive when I told them at dinner one night that I liked having cocks shoved down my throat, but it led me here so I don’t think that it is completely terrible.” And John chokes, earning a laugh from Sherlock that makes goose bumps break out all over his arms. It’s a lot to take in but the hike back to Gladstone is long enough for him to become readily acquainted with Sherlock, although he says hardly a thing during the man’s monologue.

“So, what about you? I already know why you’re here, you’ve got major PTSD and can’t go back home, but you’ve barely told me anything about yourself.” Sherlock says as John’s tower slips over the hill and John lets out a laugh.

“Well, you hardly gave me a moment to…” He breaks off and stares at his tower in horror. “Sherlock, someone broke in.” 

“They what?” 

“Someone’s broken in, my typewriters been chucked out of one of the windows!” He hisses and launches himself up the stairs, ignoring Sherlock’s frantic call and instead focusing on the large hole in one of his windows and the mess on the floor. “They’ve completely fucked everything up! They stole my fucking sheets, Sherlock? Who steals fucking sheets?” 

Sherlock coughs from the other side of the line and John thinks that he can hear him on the phone to someone else. “They stole your sheets?”

“Yeah, it fucking sucks. I’m going to have to fix the window; it’s been pretty much ruined.” John mutters and kicks at the glass on the floor. “Jesus Christ, Sherlock. Who the fuck did this?” 

“Let’s worry about this in the morning. I’ve patched a call through to Lestrade who said he’ll be out here in a couple of days and I’ve asked him to bring through a new window for you or at least something to completely cover it up with.” Sherlock sounded just as shocked as John and somehow apologetic.

“This was probably the girls at the lake.” John hisses 

Sherlock ignores him and instead says, “I’ll have Lestrade and the other rangers keep an eye out for them over the next few days.” Sherlock coughs and he mutters something under his breathe that John has to strain to catch. “If you can even call them that.” 

John allows the situation to leave him and lets out a small chuckle at Sherlock’s words. “You're not fond of the Rangers, huh?” He asks and snorts when Sherlock lets out a long groan. 

“I’m fond of people who do their job. The rangers are idiots, excluding Lestrade who has at least the intelligence to phone me when something comes up.” 

John watches through the window and sees the faint lights of Baker Tower. “Phone you? You work with them or something?” John asks. 

Sherlock makes an affirmative sort of noise. “They almost always contact me about some sort of problem in the park. I’m good at my job and I’m good at people, there’s a reason that I’m working here, John.”

“You’re good at working with people but you’re working as a fire watch who spends months at a time holed up in a tiny little tower in the middle of nowhere? Yeah,” John says as he flips over his bed. “That makes loads of sense.”

“Shut up.” Despite his words Sherlock sounds like he is smiling. “I’ll talk to you in the morning. Good night, John.” 

John smiles towards Baker Tower and watches a silhouette flash across the windows for a moment before disappearing. “Goodnight, Baker Tower.” 

 

Greg Lestrade has been a Park Ranger at Shoshone since he was spat out of the Army at twenty two from an injury in Vietnam that left him without a leg and a divorce. John finds all this out within about twenty minutes of meeting the man and just five minutes later has an invitation for drinks as soon as the fire season ends. John says maybe, he doesn’t have any plans for when it does end. He’ll probably find another park in need of saving, or he might move up to Denali, work as a Ranger for a while. 

“So what, these kids broke into your tower?” Lestrade asks, looking dubious and John shrugs. 

“I assume so. There’s hardly anyone else here and no way would someone just break in for fun. This has to have been revenge or something; they think that I was spying on them or something. “

Lestrade raises his eyebrow and looks at John, hands on his hips as one of the other rangers slipped the new window into its frame. “And were you?” 

John gapes for a second before crossing his arms. “Na, course not. They had fireworks and they’d lit a campfire.” He looks back to the tower and shakes his head, trying to calm his frustration. "And in fucking fire season no less.”

Lestrade nods for a moment then shoots thumbs up to the Ranger who has just finished putting in John’s window. “Alright then, it was a pleasure John. I’ll let you know if we find anything towards this but, just to warn you, things like this don’t normally get figured out. They’re too complex and there isn’t enough evidence. Hell, for all we know those girls could be out of the state by now. There really isn’t much that we can do.” They shake hands and Lestrade reminds him to contact him as soon as he gets out of here. 

“Will do.” He says and can’t help but relax as soon as they disappear behind the edge of the hill. His radio beeps on his belt and he smiles when Sherlock speaks. 

“As always, Lestrade is wrong.” 

“Oh?”

“It couldn’t have been the girls.” And Sherlock sounds much too happy with himself so John rolls his eyes. 

“And why is that?” 

Sherlock sighs and John hears him sit down. “How could they have gotten changed, packed up, gotten to your tower and trashed it all within the time that you were walking back? John, the way that you took was the shortest. They had no chance of getting there before you let alone spending ten minutes leaving you welcoming presents.” Sherlock mutters and when John thinks about it, he realises that Sherlock is right. There would have been no way of them getting back any quicker than him. 

“So who else could it have been?” John asks and Sherlock suddenly goes very quiet. “Oh god, Sherlock, do you know? Could it have been that guy who was watching me the other night?” 

“Of course not, don’t be stupid. I’ve got three happy campers who need your help, one of them has broken their ankle and I need you to go and help them whilst the air ambulance gets called in.” And John follows his directions, because there really is little else to do. 

 

He finds a backpack halfway through his second week hanging from the top of a tree. He calls it in and Sherlock suggests that he should loot it, so he does and finds lots of rope and a half used disposable camera. 

“Is it one of the teens?” Sherlock asks. 

“No, it looks like it was lost a long time ago. I’m flush with ropes and now have a camera to take pictures of the average views and my gorgeous face. Thank you, Carl Powers.” 

“Wait…wait who?” Sherlock sounds shocked and John pauses before he jumps down the small rock face, staring at his radio. 

“The bag had the name Carl Powers sewn into the top.” 

Sherlock lets out a startled breath. “Huh. Wow.” 

“Do you know him?” John asks and ignores the jealousy that rises in his chest at the thought. 

“Yeah, I just haven’t heard that name in ages.” Sherlock replies and John quirks up his eyebrow at nothing. 

“Lookout?” 

“Kinda, I guess.” Sherlock says making John wonder whether he is being deliberately dense or whether he just has no interest in the situation. 

“Ex-lover, then?” John asks finally because that is really what he has been asking from the beginning. 

Sherlock barks out this sharp sort of laugh that warms John a little. “Oh yeah, it was hot and heavy. Of course, Carl Powers was twelve years old so our love could never really be understood.” It takes John a moment to understand the teasing in his voice and when he does he groans loudly. 

“Jesus Christ!” And Sherlock laughs again but John drowns it out by complaining the rest of the way back to the tower. 

“It’s just odd.” Sherlock says, just before John falls asleep. 

“What is?” John peers at the tower in the distance and the figure that he can see hunched up beside the window. 

“Carl hated climbing, his dad or guardian, this scary bloke called James Moriarty brought him out here in the summer to get him away from home; I think he was having a messy divorce with his newest wife or something. Anyway, his dad used to be in the military until he was discharged for a non-fatal injury. He was missing four of his fingers.” Sherlock says and John has to wince, he’s seen injuries like that on a man before and they never end well. “I used to talk to Carl all the time because his dad was in the tower most days but Carl loved to hike so I used to walk him around the trails.” And it sounds to John as if he is smiling. “He used to get into trouble with the Rangers a lot for going out without his parents and I vouched for him. Got me in even more trouble but he could come and go as he pleased which seemed more important.” Sherlock says. 

Somewhere, in the back of John’s mind he realises something. “Hang on; you said he didn’t like climbing? Then why were there so many ropes in his bag?” 

Sherlock goes quiet for a moment and then makes an unhappy noise. “That’s what I meant, John. Something isn’t right.” 

 

The fire starts seventy six days into their summer; creeping over the top of the mountains to rest as an orange glow on the horizon. John watches it for at least an hour before his radio beeps in and Sherlock must have just gotten off of reporting the fire. 

“You’ve got a front row seat for what might be the biggest fire of the year,” Sherlock says and he sounds tired to John, though he can’t argue. He’s been exhausted, what with the hike that he had to do up to the Aspen Grove that took much too long in his opinion. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” 

John smiles and tips the glass of whisky in his hand back. “I thought that you didn’t like fires.” 

Sherlock sighs and John imagines him leaning back, like John is, against the side of his tower whilst his feet hang over the walkway. It’s oddly peaceful to watch the fire grow; even as he knows what it will do John can’t help but stare in wonder at it. “Doesn’t mean that you can’t appreciate it.” Sherlock says and John catches the heavy meaning in his words. The fire hasn’t grown much since he had been sat here but there is no doubt in his mind that it will be huge in the next couple of days. “She doesn’t have a name yet. I usually think of something funny or something practical or a little risqué when coming up with them. But why don’t you do the honours?” Sherlock asks and John chuckles a little at his words. 

“Ugh, well, what about Blackwater 2.0?” John asks and he hears Sherlock snort. 

“Not bloody likely, you want a bad omen? No, that won’t do at all.” Sherlock makes a short noise and then sighs loudly, as if he is still waiting or John’s suggestions. 

“Okay then. How about the Redbeard fire?” John finally says and it takes Sherlock a very long time to answer but John doesn’t rush him. 

“The Redbeard fire. I like it.” He sounds husky as if he’s trying to stop himself from crying. “Are you looking at the fire?” 

“Yeah, I am.” And he is, he’s watching the smoke bloom across the sky, how it partially hides Sherlock’s tower from view. 

“I love how they look at night. During the day it’s just smoke, but when the sun is down you can just… get lost?” John understands entirely but doesn’t say anything. The fire is beautiful, more so than anything he has ever seen but it reminds him of the war and of everything that he has left behind coming here. 

“I’m glad you’re here.” John says the second that images of IEDs slip into his head and he hears a soft sigh from Sherlock. 

“Me too.” Comes his short reply but it means more to him than Sherlock can ever understand. “I look forward to talking to you, even if you don’t feel comfortable talking about stuff. You always can.” Sherlock says and John feels as if he’s about to cry. 

In the end he can’t trust himself to reply with anything more than, “I wish I was over there.” 

“I wish you were too.” Sherlock replies and John smiles. “It’d be nice to be near somebody. We could talk, without these radios. We could, um, you know…” Sherlock trails off and maybe John has had too much to drink but he asks. 

“What?” 

Sherlock sounds like he’s blushing. “We could do stuff. And watch this fire.”

John laughs to himself and crosses his arms, closing his eyes against the light. “It’s going to burn for a long time.” He says. 

Sherlock sighs. “It’d be nice to be close to someone.” 

 

John finds Carl Power’s body three days after the Redbeard Fire starts. It’s early in the morning and they’ve just been told that the helicopters will be making rounds soon, that they need to be back at their towers but the afternoon if they want to be hauled out in time. He’s gone down into the cave where he saw that creepy guy and he notices a shoe almost immediately. It doesn’t take long to climb down the rock face and drop into an open cavern. 

There is a body, in shorts and a red shirt lying beside some broken climbing equipment. “Are you… Oh God.” John mutters and inches over slowly. “You’re Carl Powers.” The body is rotten, clearly it’s been down here for ages and John has to pull his shirt up to cover his noise from the stench. “You poor kid. You fell, your stuff gave out. You poor fucking kid.” 

It doesn’t take very long to pile rocks over him and John lays the disposable camera on top of the pule. It doesn’t feel right, somehow, to take it now that he’s seen what is left of the boy. He leaves the cave quickly and when the radio signal comes back, he radios Sherlock without a second thought. 

“Sherlock.” Is all he can bring himself to say. 

“Jesus, there you are. I’ve been worrying my arse off.” Sherlock mutters and John feels ill. 

“Carl Powers is dead.” John says. “He’s in there, the cave.” And he falls silent as Sherlock breathes in. 

“What?”

“The only thing in the cave is Carl. He’s dead. His body is in a cavern. You need to call search and rescue.” John says and he’s lad at least that Sherlock agrees. The phone call doesn’t take very long and when he hangs up Sherlock sighs. 

“How?” 

“Climbing, I think. He must have been exploring the cave and maybe his rope gave out. His dad probably didn’t even know how he died; he just went missing one day.” John says and heaves himself up onto a small rock ledge.

Sherlock sounds furious. “Then why didn’t he call it in?” 

John rubs his hand over his eyes and sighs. “I don’t know, Sherlock. I don’t know.” The smoke is almost unbearable now and it hurts his eyes just to keep them open. He’s going to have to get out of here soon otherwise he’ll die from carbon monoxide poisoning. 

Sherlock’s voice is tense when he answers. “Hike back. We’re leaving soon anyway.” 

 

He takes a tram over to Sherlock’s lookout and he has to pull a rope to heave himself across. It’s exhausting and it takes him longer than it should and by the end he feels as if he is going to pass out but the tower is literally right in front of him. 

And so, fortunately, is Sherlock. He’s sat on a rock, covered in ash and dirt and his face has smudges all over it but he looks at John and when he smiles it’s blinding. “John!” He cries and stands. He looks nothing like John imagined, a tall, wiry man with bright blue eyes and curly black hair that sticks up from under his cap. 

“Sherlock?” John asks and when Sherlock nods, John throws himself at him and kisses him fiercely. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he realises that Sherlock is laughing but ignores him instead. Because they are safe, the helicopters are coming and Sherlock is alive, not dead at the bottom of a cavern like Carl Powers. “I thought that you might have left already.” John whispers as Sherlock wipes the tears away from his eyes. 

Sherlock grins a lopsided grin at him and kisses him soundly again. “I would never leave you, Soldier Boy. We’re nearly there.” And whatever else he says, John doesn’t catch it over the sound of helicopter blades but he thinks it something like: “I love you.” 

And because John doesn’t know anything else, he says it back.


End file.
